


Anything For You

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Brother to lover, Dark Mycroft Holmes, Eventual Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Humiliation, M/M, Molly is a goose, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft IS the British Government, Nightmares, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Protective Mycroft, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Revenge, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, Violence, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 21:13:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15179534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: During a case, Sherlock is lured into a trap and experiences rape, brutality and humiliation. Mycroft takes care of everything and Sherlock decides to stay with him to recover.





	Anything For You

**Author's Note:**

> Contains rape elements and dealing with them. This was supposed to be a short one shot but it dragged out quite a bit, I hope I won't bore you too much :)

 

# 1

Sherlock groaned when another kick hit his ribs. He was shivering but he did his best to hide it. For several minutes now he'd been lying on damp grass which was cold and rough beneath him, the cold crawling under his clothes and, as it seemed, under his skin. He couldn’t remember having felt this helpless ever before.

“Not such a loudmouth anymore, huh? Nothing without your friend with the gun?”

Sherlock didn’t grace them with an answer. He was determined to not show his fear. His nose was bleeding and he had a cut in the forehead so blood was running down his face from two sources. He could feel a bruise under his left eye swelling. In the end it could have been much worse. He had really had it much worse.

But he was frightened and mad at his own stupidity. Like a fool he had run into their trap. An hour ago, someone had called him with a tip for revealing the boss of the criminal organisation he, John and a DI named Timothy Lorrer had been after for months. Many elder people had come to Baker Street, some of them in tears, to explain how they had been betrayed and had lost their money when they had opened the door to nice-looking strangers. Getting threatened in the end, signing papers, paying big sums that disappeared into nothingness, not traceable, no possibility to get the money back.

Then finally Sherlock and John had found a loose end. They had identified one of the criminals, who had been arrested in their presence. It had been close; Callum Brown had almost managed to flee, but John had brought his gun and they had forced him down. He had gone to prison with his eyes fixed on his feet. He had not said a word about his accomplices. But obviously some of them had witnessed the operation…

And then this phone call when John had been out; a young woman, sounding desperate, claiming to be willing to give the whole organisation away if he only met her alone. _“_ _I read so much about you, Mr Holmes. I know I can trust you. I don't trust the police,_ _”_ she had said.

And now this. A little park, secluded, empty, dark except for the light of an almost full moon. He had not seen them coming. About ten men were standing around him. He, unarmed, stupid, at the end of his wisdom. His phone was in the inside pocket of his coat. It could as well be in Baker Street. Even if he had been able to pull it out and use it – nobody could have come to his rescue quickly enough. He knew this could very well be the end and he could only blame his own naivety.

“Are you fucking with him, the blond dwarf?” The man who had asked was not even much taller than John. His eyes were green and mean; his hair was greasy and combed back, revealing a face like a ferret. He was the walking cliché of a criminal.

Sherlock didn’t react.

“I asked you something!”

“He won't talk to you,” another guy threw in. “He's Sherlock Holmes, the smart detective. So much better than us. Well, not that smart in the end, huh?”

No, really not. Sherlock wondered what his brother would say to this. Or John. Or anyone. He wondered if he'd live long enough to hear it…

“Don't worry – we won't kill you,” the second guy said. Sherlock looked up to him. He was taller and didn’t look nearly as wrecked as the other man. His hair was short and black and his eyes were dead seas of cruelness. “Just a little greeting from our boss – and he says leave us alone.”

Sherlock tried not to show his relief. “Okay,” he said, playing along.

“I don't believe him,” a third man said, a young, fat guy with more chins than hair on his head.

“Neither do I. We have to teach him a lesson, don't you think?” This man wasn't uneducated, Sherlock thought. And he knew what he was doing. “Boys, your phones… Only on him!”

The two other men pulled out their smartphones. The rest of the gang was standing behind Sherlock, giggling. He had no idea what would come; his ability to make deductions seemed to have vanished. But then he gasped when the fat guy opened his trousers and the other two followed his example.

“No,” he said and then he lifted his arms to protect his face when the first splashes of hot, stinking urine hit him.

Someone came from behind, forcing his arms behind his back and he had no choice than to endure being pissed on – his clothes, his hair and his face. When the three were finished, the rest of the criminals lined up to soil him, too, and two other guys took hold of him.

He spluttered and gagged and was appalled beyond anything, but the cold part of his brain told him to be glad that it wouldn’t get worse than this sort of humiliation.

But then it did.

“I don't think it's enough,” the tall guy mused, scratching his stubbly chin.

“No, but I have no piss left,” said the fatty and everybody laughed.

“That wasn't what I meant. Hey, you and you, hold his face.”

He got on his knees in front of Sherlock's face. “I think you're gay, right? You look totally gay. Such nice curls and these girly lips. Wanna suck my dick?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together, his brain trying to figure out a way out of this situation. A situation he had no experience with. Then he felt cold, sweaty hands on his head, roughly keeping him in place.

“Open his mouth,” the man said in a bored voice, and then Sherlock's mouth was forced open and the guy's zipper was down and his half-hard dick bobbed in front of Sherlock's eyes. “You may think of biting me but I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Sherlock stared at the knife that had appeared in his hand. He winced when the tip scratched over his ear.

“You suck me, you take my come, and you'll live. You try to bite me or fight and I'll cut your throat. Got it?” Sherlock glared at him but he just grinned. “Oh, Pe- I mean you - open his trousers and rub him a bit. He should have some fun as well.”

“Must I? I'm not a fa…”

“Just do it. And you – suck my dick, detective, and suck it well.”

*****

Almost two hours later Sherlock finally stumbled into 221b. He had left his soiled coat behind in a bin after throwing up for fifteen minutes until there had been nothing left in him. He had almost left his phone in the pocket and had to return to get it out. He had dragged himself into a restroom near the park exit and washed his face and his hair. The cut had stopped bleeding as well as his nose. Somehow he had managed to stumble home, not looking up the entire way. He hadn't called or texted anyone, and ignored two text messages that had come in. There had been nothing to say.

Now he started getting rid of the rest of his stinking, bloody clothes as soon as he had kicked the door closed behind him.

“Sherlock? Good that you're back. Is anything wrong with your phone? I tried to… Sherlock… Oh my fucking God…”

“Let me, John.” Sherlock ripped off his trousers, letting them fall like he had done with the shirt. His stomach ached awfully from throwing up. He wondered if he would ever be able to eat something again.

“What happened?”

“John, please, just shut up. Leave me alone.”

“But…”

“Just stop it!”

“You need help! Why don't you…”

Sherlock was naked now and stumbled towards the bathroom. “If our friendship means anything to you, stop that now and forget you ever saw me like this. Don't dare tell anybody about it.” His voice sounded foreign to his own ears.

And then he was alone in the locked bathroom, stepping under the hottest shower spray he could endure.

He knew he was being stupid once more. Even if he burnt all the clothes he had worn during this unspeakable scene and somehow managed to delete it from his mind, it was all on film. It would not disappear but hunt him forever.

Feeling numb and foreign in his own body, he washed himself for half an hour.

# 2

Mycroft was close to crushing his phone. He should be used to the stupidity of his minions but the depth of it stunned him day after day. “I'll explain it to you in a way even you understand it,” he said, his voice as usual getting quieter instead of louder. “You…” He looked up when the door of his office opened after a short knock.

He narrowed his eyes. Anthea never just came in without being invited. And then he saw her face. Something had happened.

“I have to go. Do what I told you. I'll call you back and you better have good news for me then.” He ended the connection. “What's wrong?”

Her face was pale and her bottom lip was trembling. “Sir…” She broke off.

He stood up from his chair. “What happened?”

She took a deep breath. “There's something you have to see. Online. I contacted the provider already to find out where it came from and take it off the site but I guess it will be everywhere very soon.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked with forced calmness. Of course he was rather sure with whom this had to have something to do. The only question was how bad it was. Judging from Anthea's appearance, it had to be devastating. She was not shocked easily.

“Your brother, sir.”

Mycroft nodded and let himself drop onto his chair again. “Show me.” He had no idea what to expect but when he started watching the clip, he realised this would be bad. Very, very bad.

*****

“DI Lorrer. I'm Mycroft Holmes.” He wasn’t surprised that the man had obviously heard about him. The young officer opened his brown eyes wide in awe and fear. Good.

“Oh, Mr Holmes, sir, what can I do for you?” Definitely a promising start for their conversation.

Mycroft shifted the umbrella in his hand. “I've heard you've arrested a man recently, supposed to be part of a criminal organisation.”

“Yes, indeed. But he won't talk. He…”

“I will talk to him now. Alone.”

“But…”

“That wasn't a question. This is a MI5 matter now. It's an official interrogation.” Which was true. It was a secret service matter because Mycroft had decided it was one. This made it official. Nobody would dare even ask him about it.

“But…”

“You have ten minutes to bring us into one room. There will be no recordings.”

The DI, a thirty-year-old with receding hair and more than a few pounds too much on his ribs, swallowed. “Yes, sir. I'll take care of it. Please just wait here. Someone will bring you tea.”

Mycroft graced him with a thin smile. “Your efforts are much appreciated.”

He sat down on the visitor's chair.

It hadn't taken him long to figure out which case had led to Sherlock being manhandled like this and find out everything his brother and the police knew about it. Anthea was working on tracing the video to its source. But Mycroft didn’t plan to sit and wait for the result. The prisoner would tell him all he had to know.

His mask was in place. He had given himself an hour to calm down enough to appear as if he was completely untouched – even though he was shaken to the core. His little brother had been abused and humiliated in the worst way he could imagine. There was no way in hell he would let them get away with it, if Sherlock wanted his interference or not (and as far as he knew Sherlock, he probably wouldn’t…).

After only five minutes, the young DI appeared again. “Sir, everything's ready.”

“Excellent.”

*****

Mycroft shut the door behind him. Without even looking at the man who was chained to the table, he pulled a small item out of his coat pocket and held it against the camera in the corner. It was off. Another click told him there were no bugs in this room either. DI Lorrer would experience a career push very soon.

“Who are you?” he heard in a sassy tone when he stored the MI5 device again.

He finally looked at the prisoner. And smiled. The man shied back which didn’t surprise him. It hadn't been a nice smile. Nice smiles were reserved for Mummy and Father and the Royal Family.

“Wrong question,” he said, adjusting his black leather gloves. “The question is: who is your boss?”

The man snorted. “Oh, they sent in a clown.” There was still a hint of fear in his voice but the dull and pointless question (at least in his opinion) had misguided him into believing Mycroft was not a real threat for him, as malevolent as he might seem. Callum Brown was about twenty, scrawny, unshaven, red, tousled hair. No education whatsoever. Not impressive in the least.

Mycroft grinned. “That was good!” The grin dropped. “You have five minutes to tell me everything I want to know, Mr Brown. Otherwise someone will pick up your little sister, Maisie, I believe, from her friend…” He pulled out his little black notebook and skimmed through it, “… ah, yes, Susie Cunningham. 54 High Street.” He had known that of course but people seemed to be intimidated by little black notebooks even though he had no idea why.

The face of the boy paled. And then his cheek reddened with wrath. “How dare you!”

How predictable…

The criminal sat up on the chair he had been slumped down on. “Not even my boss or any of my… colleagues would threaten my little sister! She's six!”

Mycroft smiled. “Oh, yes, the famous honour amongst thieves. But see – you are a crook but I am not. There is no such thing as honour when it comes to you and me. I doubt that you can even spell the word correctly. Well?”

“You're bluffing! You're an official; you could never do that!”

“No?” Mycroft nodded. “Well, try me.” The sudden steel in his voice made the gangster pull back. “I would not make my hands dirty - of course not. I have people who are totally fine with that though. They'll rape her for five hours and throw her into the rubbish afterwards and sleep totally well after it. Your choice if little Maisie has to suffer or if she'll go on playing with her friend Susie and never find out how close she was to getting worked over. The time is running. You talk or I'll talk to someone who is already rubbing his hands in anticipation.” He hadn't played this role for a long time. It was rather amusing. Legwork did have its rewards.

The prisoner gulped. “They'll kill me.”

Mycroft smiled only internally. He shook his head. “No. You and your family will start a new life with new names and a generous amount of money after I've taken care of them. Nobody will come after you. But listen and listen well – you will never talk to anyone about today. You will never return to London. You break this deal and I'll find you. Everywhere. Are we clear?”

After about ten seconds the younger man nodded. “Clear.”

# 3

“Sherlock…” John came into his bedroom with a face as pale as the sheets.

He had seen it.

Sherlock had already waited for it. He looked away. “Forget it.”

“I'm so sorry.” Slowly John came closer and sat down next to him on the bed.

“I'm fine.”

“They raped you! They… pissed…”

“I know. I was there! And they didn’t exactly rape me. Nobody…” Sherlock felt his heart starting to race. He had tried all techniques he knew to delete what had happened but he had failed miserably. He could still taste the dick and the sperm. He could still feel the hand that had roughly masturbated him into almost full hardness. His body had betrayed him. And John had seen it. It was online; probably someone had shared the link under his blog.

He couldn’t have this conversation.

Slowly John reached out for his arm. Sherlock looked at his hand but he didn’t back away. “It was rape, Sherlock. Even if they didn't penetrate your… Oh God, I'm going to kill them! They were from this organisation, right?”

The hatred in his voice was strangely comforting. But the feeling of humiliation was overpowering it by far. John had seen that. John who had always admired him, no matter how often he had reprimanded Sherlock for his lack of social skills. He had adored Sherlock's brain. He wouldn't do that anymore now...

“You need to talk to someone about it.”

“What – a psychologist? Just let it be, John. In two weeks nobody will talk about it anymore and I'll have forgotten about it.” Did he really believe that? His phone buzzed, then John's. Sherlock switched his one off without looking.

John looked at the display. “It's Molly.”

“I want to sleep now.”

“Okay. I'll leave you alone. But you can't cope with that on your own.”

“Tell me John – did your therapist heal you? After you came back from Afghanistan?”

The doctor bit his lip. “No. You did. You and our work.”

“Exactly. It will be the same for me.” But would anyone still search for his help now? After seeing him so weak, so helpless and so stupid? And would he be able to trust his own judgement ever again?

When John had gone, he was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Whenever he closed his eyes, he was lying on the ground of the park again and he could feel the kicks, and the piss and the hands and the stinking penis in his mouth and the shameless hand on his cock. When he finally dozed off, his eyes were dry and burning from not blinking for way too long.

*****

Sherlock was sitting in his chair and he had been doing so motionless for many hours now. He wasn't feeling better. In fact after the sleepless, painful night everything had become only worse.

It had been a nightmare of a day. A dozen reporters had shown up at the doorstep and Mrs Hudson and John had yelled at them. No stranger had entered the flat, including any clients. John had been on the phone all day while Sherlock had refused to take any calls.

Eventually he had told John why he had gone into this park in rasped-out words, not even being able to build full sentences anymore, only confirming John's suspicions that he had been lured there. John had spared him any reproaches about his stupidity.

Mrs Hudson had come upstairs, crying. Lestrade and Molly had shown up – the DI with barely concealed tears in his eyes, the pathologist crying openly. Lestrade had of course asked for Sherlock's clothes from the night and had wanted to know why he hadn't come to him and reported his torturers.

Sherlock hadn't said a word apart from _'hi'_ and _'I'm fine'_ , and, in Lestrade's case _'burnt my clothes'_ and _'didn_ _’_ _t want to'_. What was there to say? He had left behind or destroyed all evidence (as he had stuffed the clothes he'd had to wear until he'd been home into the bin in the morning, right before the dustmen had come to empty them). He wanted to forget it and if that wasn't possible, he at least didn’t want to think about it anymore.

“It's gone. On all websites I checked, it's been deleted,” John said, handing Sherlock a cup of tea. “Please, drink that. You didn’t eat anything since yesterday. Would you like a sandwich? Some biscuits? You must eat something!”

Mrs Hudson had brought food all day but Sherlock had ignored it. He couldn’t eat anything.

“Must have been your brother,” John mused. “Wonder why he didn’t call. But obviously he took care of the video.”

“It will show up again. Not even Mycroft can control the internet.” It was the longest statement Sherlock had made since the day before.

“He seems to try at least.”

Sherlock nodded, trying not to imagine his brother watching his degradation. No wonder he hadn't called. It must have been so embarrassing for him…

“Someone's coming.”

Sherlock put the mug onto the table and got up. He heard Mrs Hudson speak and then he heard the voice of his brother. He let himself fall into the chair again.

“Talk of the devil,” John mumbled and got up. “Mycroft. This isn't a good time.”

Sherlock saw his brother, dressed in a dark-grey suit with a black tie, looking down on the doctor - a reptilian look out of cold blue eyes. “Please leave us alone, Doctor Watson.” His voice was calm and quiet but no less imperious. He wouldn’t go away.

John shook his head. “He doesn't want to…”

“It's okay, John.” Sherlock took a sip from his tea and realised that his hand was shaking.

Mycroft sat down on the couch after leaning his umbrella against the table. John looked from one brother to the other one.

He was hesitant to go but he knew he had to. “I'll go downstairs, just in case the reporters come back.”

Sherlock nodded. “Thank you, John.”

“If you need me…”

“He knows where you are,” Mycroft said dryly before Sherlock could answer.

John nodded and then he left the flat, his phone started to ring before he was out of the door.

Silence fell over 221b. Sherlock looked down on his hands.

“Come here,” Mycroft said after a minute.

“What for? You can tell me from there how stupid I was. Going there unarmed and alone like the worst imbecile on earth.”

“Did John tell you that?”

“No.” John had only comforted him. Or he had tried to. Lestrade hadn't pointed out his failure either. It wasn't necessary anyway.

Mycroft nodded. “Come over. I want to show you something.” He held up his phone and Sherlock tensed.

“Not that,” Mycroft added. “Wherever it appears, it will be deleted at once. I couldn’t stop it from being spread in the beginning but my people are on it to catch it as soon as it shows up again.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock whispered. He knew it wouldn’t work. Too many people had seen it already and God knew how many had saved it on their computers. It would never disappear for good. But he was touched by Mycroft trying to help him. After Sherrinford, they had hardly met. It should have brought them closer together but it hadn't. Mycroft had reconciled with their parents but the brothers were as estranged as ever.

“Come,” Mycroft said again. His voice showed no sign of impatience.

Finally Sherlock got up and walked over to him to sit down next to him on the couch. Mycroft showed him his phone and started a video.

An old warehouse or so it seemed. A group of men. Their faces zoomed in. All of his torturers and some more guys who looked equally shabby. Sherlock shuddered and looked up to Mycroft.

The older man nodded. “They're all there. Including the big boss.”

“How did you… The guy who was arrested.” The man who had refused to give anybody away.

“Mm-hm. I made him talk.”

“How?” He stared on the display, seeing the fat guy gesticulating. And there was the one who had put his... dick into Sherlock's mouth, looking smug and untouched. His empty stomach contracted.

Mycroft smiled briefly. “Gave him an incentive,” he said vaguely.

Sherlock stared at him. “What happened?” He couldn’t watch these men again.

“They were interrogated. Confessed they had done this to you, on behalf of their boss who didn't say a word. And then there was a little… fire. Technical defect.” He fumbled with his phone and showed Sherlock the burning building. “I'm afraid nobody made it out alive.”

Sherlock felt as if he was getting sick. “What…”

Mycroft stored his phone. “Case closed for DI Lorrer. Good that you didn’t make a report. My men found your coat in the park and it was burnt as well. I believe you took care of the rest of your clothing?” Sherlock nodded. “No trace from them can be linked to you. And none of them was recognisable on the video they put online. I made sure it can't be traced back to any of them.”

“Why did you do that?” Sherlock's head felt so heavy.

Mycroft stood up and there was a strange flicker in his eyes. “Seriously, Sherlock? You really thought I'd let them get away with this?” He took his umbrella and proceeded to leave. “I'll send John back up.” His voice was calm but he sounded… hurt.

Sherlock bored his fingers into the couch, staring at his brother's back. _'Wait'_ he wanted to say but he didn’t. Pain shot through his stomach and he gagged dryly and leaned forward. “Don't go,” he finally rasped out. His brother's steps stopped and then Sherlock heard him coming back.

He winced when a large, warm hand was placed on his neck.

“Brother, breathe slowly.” Not the voice of the Iceman. Mycroft sounded concerned, gentle – and strong. He sounded like – security. Safety. Family.

Something broke in him. He could almost hear it. Tears started streaming down his cheeks and he reached out to the man he had pushed away all his adult life.

He could feel Mycroft sit down next to him again. “Shhh, come here.”

Blindly Sherlock scrabbled onto Mycroft's lap, burying his face against his neck, fisting his silky shirt as Mycroft had gotten rid of his jacket before he had sat down obviously, slumping down into a tight embrace, into warmth and comfort and the smell of an expensive eau de cologne and Mycroft.

“It's okay, baby brother, I'm here, I won't go away.” His voice was like silk with no hint of embarrassment.

Sherlock let go completely; he cried for the first time since it had happened, cried for the first time in years, cried against the warm, soft skin of the man who had let his attackers burn alive without any scruples as Sherlock was sure and who was holding him like a child. It had been like this, long ago. Sherlock remembered it only now, as if the memories of his former closeness with his brother had gotten lost along the way of getting estranged from him when Sherlock had grown up or perhaps with the loss of the memories of Eurus and Victor. It had been Mycroft who he had turned to when he had hurt his knee. Mycroft who had taken care of him. In an absent corner of his mind he wondered why he had allowed this bond to break so many years ago.

“Sherlock…” he heard John's voice behind him and he grabbed Mycroft's shirt tighter.

Mycroft embraced him even firmer. “It's alright, Doctor Watson. I'm taking care of my brother. I won't go anywhere.”

“Okay. I'm here if you need me, Sherlock.” Sherlock nodded without looking at his friend, and a moment later he heard John leave and lifted his head, wiping over his wet face. “What if…”

Mycroft was holding him as tight as before. “What if what? They find out that it was me?”

“Yes,” Sherlock croaked.

“Nobody will. Technical defect as I said.” Mycroft took one hand from Sherlock's body to get his phone. He deleted the clip. “The guy who's in prison has just been exonerated and can't be linked to the organisation. He will leave London today.”

“How did you… Never mind.”

“Exactly. I'm the smart one, remember?”

Sherlock usually hated it when Mycroft said that. But he was apparently right…

Mycroft saw his reaction and surprised Sherlock with stroking over his hair. Even after being so close to each other the gesture was strangely sweet. “You made a mistake, little brother. That doesn’t mean you're stupid. You'll get over it, Sherlock. All your friends will help you.”

“Will you… help me too? You already did but…”

“Of course. I guess what I made you watch shows that there is nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

Sherlock had no idea what to say to this, how to express his gratitude, so he just leaned forward to rest his head on Mycroft's shoulder, and he shuddered when he was pressed against his brother's body once more. He hadn't known human contact could feel so great.

Mycroft just held him for a long time without saying a word. Finally he patted Sherlock's arm. “Alright, brother mine. What do you think of eating something? I'm rather sure you didn’t get much today.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Not hungry.”

“I know. But you need to eat nonetheless. Shall I call Mrs Hudson so she brings you something?”

“Yes… “

“Fine.”

“I want to come with you,” Sherlock surprised himself and Mycroft. He searched his brother's gaze. Mycroft looked a little stunned but not annoyed. “If I stay here, they won't leave me alone. Even if the clip gets deleted whenever they catch it – you can't delete it from their minds.”

Mycroft looked as if he thought _'I could though'_ but he nodded. “Of course you can come and live in my house. But you'll be alone until I come back from work.”

“That's okay. I think I need that.”

“Very well. Do you feel well enough to pack some clothes? Everything else is there or I can buy it.”

Sherlock felt a lot better already. “Yes. No problem. Thank you, Mycroft.”

“I'm your big brother, Sherlock. We may not have been very close before but you can have everything from me. And my hospitality is really the least you will get.”

Sherlock fought back the tears that threatened to come out at these gentle words. “It will… take me some time.”

“Of course it will. You can take as much time as you need. I saw agents coming back from fieldwork where all kinds of things had happened to them. It's a lot to process. But I'm there and you can call me anytime during the day. John can visit you of course. But please…”

“I won't tell him anything about this fire.”

“Better not.”

Sherlock thought that John might understand it. But he would never risk that.

He wondered how he was feeling about what Mycroft had done for him – the mercilessness, the cruelty. Shouldn’t he be shocked? Then he thought of that night and winced. No. He really wasn't. All he felt was gratitude. And a sort of affection for his brother he would have never believed he was capable of.

“Thank you,” he said again as he couldn’t put in words what he really felt. Not that he really knew it. But perhaps it could be summed up as 'love'.

Mycroft eyed him closely. Then he smiled, and Sherlock couldn’t remember having had such a smile directed at him from his brother for the past thirty years. “Anything for you, little brother.”

*****

“What's he doing?”

Mycroft turned around to John Watson. “He's packing.”

“Well, I do see that. Sherlock?”

“He'll stay with me for a while. For as long as he wants to,” Mycroft made clear, not for John but for Sherlock.

His brother turned to him, a shirt in his hand, and a smile ghosted over his swollen face. Mycroft felt a pull at an organ he usually denied to even possess, and he wished he had killed these bastards himself. Or could get them back to life to do it now. Or just piss on their ashes…

“I see,” John said. “I'll tell the clients to come back sometime then?”

Mycroft felt the urge to grab his collar and shake him. “This is not the priority now,” he hissed and John looked up to him and held up his hands.

“No, of course not. I just… Sorry, Sherlock. You think that's a good idea?”

“You can visit me, Mycroft said,” Sherlock mumbled shyly. “But I need to get away from here. The reporters will scare the clients off anyway.”

“Well, he could have taken care of them,” John said with a gesture at Mycroft.

“We still have some sort of a free press, Doctor Watson. And you know I tend to stay in the dark. Eventually they will find other victims they can hunt but so far, this is the best story they've gotten for a while.” Mycroft regretted this statement as soon as he saw Sherlock's expression. “I'm sorry, little brother. But it is what it is.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yeah. I can't stay here, John. And I don't think I'd be able to help anyone now…” His hopeless tone clearly said that he doubted he would ever be able to do that again.

“I told you that you need help!” John sounded rather desperate.

“And he will get it,” Mycroft said, very close to losing his temper.

“You'll get a therapist for him?”

“If that's what he wants.”

“Well, I'm here. No need to talk about me as if I was some sort of invalid!” Sherlock's tone was strident.

Mycroft nodded. “I'm sorry, little brother.”

“I don't need a therapist. I only need some peace. And…” Sherlock broke off and Mycroft wondered what he'd been about to add. He couldn't deduce it.

“You will get whatever you need, be assured.” He caught John's look and knew the doctor wanted to talk to him alone. “Just take your time, Sherlock. We'll be in the living room.”

John sent him a grateful look and Sherlock nodded and continued to get his stuff together.

When Mycroft and John were alone, the doctor cleared his throat. “Why did you do that? Get Brown out of prison?”

Mycroft silently cursed the DI. “Did I?”

John snorted. “You were there! I called Lorror and he told me that you had taken over the case! And now Brown's free? I know he was involved in this! Can't you find the guys who did that to Sherlock? We can't let them go unpuni-… Oh.”

“What – 'oh'? Enlighten me.” He knew it of course. John Watson was not a complete idiot.

“This fire. I read it in the news. A whole warehouse full of people burnt down.”

“Oh, what a tragedy.” He figured he had not been quite able to keep the malevolent smile out of his voice.

“Fucking hell! You're the devil!” But John didn’t sound or look appalled in the least. Actually for the first time since the ex-soldier had gotten into his brother's life, John looked at Mycroft with another expression than contempt or annoyance. It was admiration. Bad little man…

Of course Mycroft would never confess it. He smiled thinly. “I have no idea what you're talking about. Sherlock can't identify his attackers. The chances they'll ever find them are very slim I'm afraid.”

“I bet they are. A line-up with ashes doesn’t make much sense.”

Mycroft almost grinned about this dry statement. Perhaps John was not that useless after all.

“Well done,” the doctor mumbled. “He knows it?”

“Sherlock knows everything he needs to know,” Mycroft said suavely. “And don't worry about him. He'll be in good hands.”

John nodded. “Somehow I totally believe that. I never thought…”

“Never thought what? That I'd care enough for my only brother to help him get through being violated?”

“Yeah, that was stupid. I should have known. You two just always seemed like… Well, you know that! You said that he considered you his arch enemy if you may remember!”

Mycroft smiled briefly. “We're brothers, John. Even though we were estranged for a long time.”

“Seems that has changed. That's really good.”

“And yet you were and probably are still not happy that he will stay with me.”

“Just because… _I_ wanted to take care of him.”

Mycroft couldn’t help but grimace. “I see.” Had it finally happened? Had they gotten together after Sherrinford?

“Ah, no! Not like that! He's my best friend, that's all. And that should be enough. We've been through so much together and I do believe I could help him. But I guess you've proven that you do care and that he can have anything from you.”

“My house is his house,” Mycroft said, knowing John was not talking about that.

“Very generous of you. And don't worry – your secret is safe with me.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “I have no idea…”

“…what I'm talking about, I know.” John surprised him with patting his arm. He didn’t appreciate being touched but it didn’t bother him too much. “Anyway – thanks. And if you need help with him, in any way, let me know, okay?”

“Thank you, Doctor Watson. He will surely like to meet you during the day from time to time so be my guest.” He turned around when he heard a suitcase being put on the floor. Sherlock appeared in the door.

“Can we go, Mycroft?” he asked shyly and the tone made Mycroft's throat go dry.

This was his sassy, arrogant, self-confident, snarky little brother, and he sounded like the child he had long ceased to be, only much weaker. He could feel his right hand ball into a fist but he tried not to show his rage at these worthless pieces of rubbish. They had gotten their punishment but it didn’t seem to be enough.

He knew that it would take Sherlock a long time to get over that. But he would do everything in his power to help him cope.

Mycroft Holmes was not fond of people. They wrecked his last nerve. They were annoying. Useless. Some of them were helpful though, like Anthea. Some people deserved his respect, like his parents or the Queen.

But there was only one human in this world that he loved.

“Yes, brother mine. Let's go.”

# 4

Sherlock let his bag drop when he had entered Mycroft's house. They hadn't spoken much on the way there and Mycroft smiled at him when he closed the door.

“Alright, I've got two ready guest rooms, one on this floor with a separate bathroom and one upstairs, directly next to my room but without…”

“Next to you,” Sherlock burst out without thinking and then he blushed about how needy this had sounded.

But Mycroft nodded. “Very well. Don't hesitate to… come over if you want company.” He looked at his watch. “I'll have to go back to the office in a couple of minutes for a meeting though but I shouldn’t be away for too long.”

“Oh, sorry, of course.” It was four pm on a work day. What had he thought? That Mycroft would stay and hold his hand? Ridiculous once more…

“There's nothing to be sorry for, Sherlock. Come, let's bring your luggage upstairs and we'll have a look what else you need, and then I'll go and bring dinner on my way back. And yes,” he added when Sherlock opened his mouth, “I know you're not hungry but I'll make sure you're not starving on my watch. Mummy would…” He broke off and Sherlock paled.

He hadn't even thought about their parents. They would find it out, no matter that they didn’t use the internet. It was a wonder they hadn't been told already…

Mycroft sighed. “Wouldn't it be better to explain them…”

“No. No, I can't.” Sherlock felt tears welling up in his eyes at the thought. His poor mother – it would kill her to hear about that. It had been so hard for them to deal with the truth about Eurus and now this…

“I'll do it then.”

“I don't want them to know…”

Mycroft grabbed his shoulder and stroked it. When Sherlock winced at the unexpected touch, he took his hand away at once. “I know, little brother. But someone will tell them rather sooner than later. Better me than a stranger. Alright?”

Sherlock swallowed. And nodded in the end. “I'm sorry,” he croaked. “I'm such a burden for you.” Mycroft reached for his phone and Sherlock knew he was about to cancel his meeting so he could stay with his pathetic brother. It made Sherlock feel even smaller and weaker. “No, please. Show me the room and then you can go and I'll have some rest…”

Pale-blue eyes gazed into his and then Mycroft nodded. “Yes. You can call me, Sherlock. Meeting or not. I won't leave you alone with this disaster. And forget what you just said. You are not a burden for me. What they did to you would have made everybody feel bad. Perhaps John was right and…”

“No. No therapist. Please.”

“No need to beg me, Sherlock. If you don't want to talk to anyone, you don't have to. But you can talk to me. Always.”

“Why are you so nice to me? I don't deserve it. I was an arsehole towards you all my fucking life.”

“Sherlock… Not now.” Mycroft looked stressed all at once and Sherlock cursed himself once more. Mycroft noticed it and frowned even more. “No, please. Just… try to relax until I'm back. And Sherlock – I have your back. Who if not me? That you chose to stay here and not with John – it means a lot to me. Don't feel bad about it. It's all good between us. You were a brat, yes, but not an arsehole.”

He winked at Sherlock and the detective smiled. It felt strange on his face. “I can live with that,” he said and Mycroft smiled back.

“Fine. Let's go check out your room, okay?”

“Yes. Will you bring pizza for dinner?”

Mycroft grimaced for a second but then he laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. This time Sherlock didn’t wince. “Ghastly pizza for dinner is it then.”

“Beer?” He never drank beer but he felt like teasing his brother a bit.

“Don't push it.” He winked again.

Sherlock felt tears in his eyes once more but they were no tears of desperation. He was feeling gratitude and a closeness to his brother he'd have never expected. Mycroft had been a stranger to him all his adult life and now Sherlock felt nothing but safe and weirdly warm in his presence. Mycroft saw the tears and tightened his grip on Sherlock.

“It'll be all fine, Sherlock. I promise you.”

Sherlock wasn’t so sure about that. His physical injuries were very light but his… soul, for the lack of a better word, was struggling in a way he hadn't experienced before. But whatever he had to face, at least he wouldn’t have to face it alone.

*****

“What's that?” Sherlock asked, taking the cartons with pizza from Mycroft's hand, pointing at the big bag his brother was also carrying.

Mycroft smiled. “Something you need.”

“No.”

“Oh yes.” Mycroft pulled out a brand new Belstaff. It was darker than the one Sherlock had stuffed into the bin and it would suit him very well. He frowned when Sherlock's eyes got wet once more. He was so not used to his brother being so emotional. His face was expressing gratitude, embarrassment and… fear. Fear because he wasn’t sure he could ever return to his normal life of being the smart detective in the posh coat? That his life and his soul had been shattered to pieces by this appalling, senseless, disgusting violence against him?

Mycroft couldn’t even imagine how he had to feel. He recalled how he had felt watching this nasty video. Sherlock, so brave, trying not to show his fright and his disgust. How his little brother had been forced to suck the dick of this piece of shit, how another man had fumbled with Sherlock's penis, how ashamed he had been when he had reacted to it. And before all this, these guys had _pissed_ on his baby brother.

Even if he was to become a hundred years old, he would never forget this film. Watching this had almost torn him apart but he had watched it to the end, feeling he owed Sherlock to do it as he'd had to endure it.

He fought his own emotions back with all he had. Sherlock was feeling ashamed and beaten enough, and he would certainly never forget what had happened to him, either. He didn’t need to watch Mycroft's struggles with this.

He cleared his throat. “The famous consulting detective needs his coat,” he said, giving his voice an assuring undertone. Sherlock would recover and he would be this detective again.

“I don't know what to say,” Sherlock mumbled, taking the expensive coat. “Thank you, Mycroft. For everything…”

“ _De nada_ , Sherlock. It should be clear anyway but I'll say it nonetheless: whatever you need and find in this house, you can have it. If you need anything else, let me know and I'll get it for you. For as long as you want to, this is your home.”

Sherlock nodded, fighting against the tears once more. “Thank you,” he whispered again. “Please – say something nasty, mean, admonishing, anything…”

Mycroft understood. This all was overwhelming for Sherlock. Their sudden closeness, his realisation that Mycroft had always been on his side and that he had treated him rather unfairly, the huge bundle of different emotions he had to deal with all at once… He needed a relief. “Well, what should be clear as well is that I won't allow you to bomb this house to pieces with any silly experiments. No body parts in the fridge, no autopsies on the kitchen table.”

To his delight Sherlock smiled, at least for a second or two. “Party pooper,” he said, trying to sound like his normal self but failing miserably.

 _And no drugs_ , Sherlock, Mycroft thought. _No sedating yourself so you don't have to think about these horrors. No shooting yourself into the stratosphere with cocaine or heroin to escape this reality._ He didn’t speak it out, not wanting to destroy this friendly, trustful atmosphere between them but it was his biggest fear – finding Sherlock again with a needle in his arm, perhaps with the final overdose.

He had been very surprised when Sherlock had asked to stay in his house. But also very touched and relieved. He wasn't at home during the day so he couldn’t control what Sherlock was doing but he really hoped Sherlock wouldn’t bring drugs into his house.

“Deal,” Sherlock said, offering him his hand after putting the coat over his arm, and Mycroft could see that Sherlock had deduced his thoughts.

He took the warm, soft hand. “Deal.” He held Sherlock's hand for as long as Sherlock let him. Then he glanced at the cartons. “Let's have our ghastly dinner now.”

“Where's the beer?”

Mycroft smiled. He knew Sherlock hated beer. “You can have wine, whiskey or water.”

“Damn. Water then.”

Mycroft nodded. “Good choice.” Another proof that Sherlock had deduced his fears. A glass of whiskey wouldn’t have harmed him but he was relieved that his brother had decided to stay completely sober. Mycroft could have done with a drink himself of course but he would stick to water as well then.

They walked to the living room where Sherlock had set up plates and cutlery already. “How was your meeting?”

“Serving the purpose. And I called our parents, Sherlock,” he added in a quiet voice.

Sherlock stood and looked on the ground. “Was it very bad?” he whispered.

It had been indeed. The elder Holmeses had not heard about the events and the film yet as they had only returned from a line-dancing appointment in Cardiff an hour ago. Mummy had cried, which Mycroft had expected, but Father had cried as well, and this had been even more horrible to witness. Of course they had offered to immediately come to London or at least call Sherlock, but Mycroft had assured them that his brother was in his care and that he wouldn’t let anything happen to him but that Sherlock needed rest more than anything now.

“I had to promise them that we'll visit them as soon as you feel better.”

Sherlock nodded. “Better than them coming here now.”

“Exactly. The worst thing was that I had to tell them that these people won't go to prison for that.”

He wondered what his parents would think if they knew the truth – that he had let some very trustworthy MI5 guys take care of the matter. They were good, friendly people who believed in the law and a god that would punish the bad. Mycroft didn’t believe in the latter. And what the law could have done to these people wouldn’t have been sufficient.

“Yes, I can imagine.” Sherlock seemed to be deeply depressed once more and Mycroft cursed himself for mentioning that before dinner.

He had never thought about this, but violence, especially sexual violence, had more than one victim who had to deal with the crime and the shame and the pain.

“Come, little brother,” he softly said. “Let's eat something and relax a bit.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said with a forced smile. He opened the first carton. “That looks great.”

It did smell quite appealing as well. They both took a slice and sat down at the large table opposite of each other. Mycroft surprised himself with laying a hand on Sherlock's arm, gently squeezing it. Sherlock smiled at him, and Mycroft smiled back and ate the first bit of pizza.

“Pretty good,” he said with his mouth full, and Sherlock grinned, which had of course been his aim.

“Manners, brother!”

“Sod manners.” Actually sod everything except for the man opposite of him.

He had not been able to protect Sherlock from these savages but he had avenged him, and he would never let anything happen to him again. And he would do whatever was in his power to help him get over it.

*****

Sherlock put the book onto the nightstand. Mycroft had provided him with a few from his private library when Sherlock had asked him for it. _“Give me something boring that makes me sleep, something about the Queen if you have any,”_ he had said, earning a playfully reprimanding eyebrow-lifting and a short and suspiciously ironic lecture about the importance of the royals.

He had slept for a few hours when Mycroft had been away, dropping out of exhaustion after the horrible night on the couch in the living room, and he did feel sleepy again but the foreign room, the different smell and the entire situation and probably the rather heavy dinner made him feel restless and wired.

Never in his life would he have imagined finding himself in such a mess. He had dealt with victims of crimes for ages and now he had found out the hardest way how it felt to be one.

He switched off the light, fearing he would not fall asleep but seeing the images again. Tasting and feeling the abuse. He hated to feel like this. He was a very smart, very self-confident man who knew who he was and what he was capable of. He didn’t want to be a victim… He knew how useless this thought was. Nobody wanted that.

His throat got tight when he closed his eyes. Mycroft was only a room away and it was a comfort – and boy would he have called anybody stupid who suggested his brother could be a comfort for him only two days ago. But nonetheless the loneliness of this unfamiliar room made his thoughts go back to the night that had obviously changed his life forever. It made him shiver under the warm blanket in this late summer night, and he refused to think about how much damage these events had done to him.

He tried to concentrate on some chemical equations. Anything but thinking about a reality that made him cringe.

He doubted that it would work but after a few minutes, he could feel the sleep claiming him and he gratefully let himself fall.

*****

Mycroft glanced at the alarm. He had not even slept two hours. It didn’t take him long to figure out what had woken him, and he slid out of his bed and into his robe and left his room.

His heart grew heavy when he heard the whimpers behind the guest room door. He carefully opened it up – there was no key to this door so Sherlock couldn’t lock it.

His brother was sleeping, so much was sure, and it didn’t need Mycroft's brain to know what he was dreaming about.

Sherlock wasn’t tossing around though – he dreamt and suffered rather motionlessly.

What should he do? Wake him up? Watch him being in pain, hoping the dream would end and he would calm down? How would Sherlock react to being woken like a child? Mycroft knew this whole situation was seriously embarrassing for him already.

And Mycroft had no idea how to deal with it. He could and did offer Sherlock to talk to him, very well knowing he would in all probability not do that. He let him stay with him and he would take care of him and he had thought once more that he would do anything to help him during dinner. But now that he was watching his suffering little brother, he was feeling very uncomfortable. He had no experience in dealing with a man who had gotten hurt in such a way. What comfort and assistance could he really offer him?

But then he stepped forward, shaking off his insecurity. His brother needed him and he wouldn’t leave him alone, no matter how awkward both of them were feeling about it.

He sat down on the bed next to him, switched on the lamp on the nightstand and gently touched his brother's shoulder. “Sherlock. Wake up. It's fine. You're safe.”

A moment later Sherlock blinked against the light. “I'm sorry,” he brought out.

Mycroft shook his head. “Don't be. Come.”

“Where…?”

“This bed isn't big enough for both of us. Mine is.” It was a spontaneous idea. Bringing back memories of child Sherlock who had loved to sleep in his big brother's bed. More than thirty years ago…

To his surprise Sherlock didn’t look embarrassed. His eyes only showed gratitude and relief. “Thank you.”

Mycroft stood up so he could get out of the bed. His heart was aching. What had happened had brought them a lot closer together but he would have gladly gotten rejected and mocked by Sherlock for the rest of his life if he could only make these horrible events undone so Sherlock would be the same man he had been before – a strong, grown-up man who had gotten over the struggles of his youth and had found his place with his job and his friends, content with what he did and who he was. Now he was lost and Mycroft could only hope he would be able to help his little brother to get over it one day. And until then, he would be his rock, as unlikely as this role was for him.

“No problem, brother mine.” He patted Sherlock's arm, feeling the silky fabric of his pyjamas. “Would you like some tea?”

“No, thank you.”

A few minutes later, they were lying in Mycroft's bed, about a metre apart, and the older man switched off the light. They lay silent for a long time in this awkward situation but then Mycroft could hear that Sherlock had fallen asleep again.

Mycroft was not used to sharing his bed with anyone but oddly enough, he didn’t mind it, and soon he followed Sherlock into sleep, undisturbed until the alarm went off in the morning.

# 5

“Oh, hi.” Sherlock looked over to John when he stepped back to let his visitor's in.

“I had to shake off the reporters and went to St. Barth's first,” his flatmate explained. “And…”

“And I insisted on coming with him. I hope that's okay?” Molly looked at him with her huge eyes full of compassion.

It wasn’t. Sherlock had agreed on meeting with John while Mycroft was at work but he didn’t think he could deal with Molly now. But he nodded. “Sure. Come over to the kitchen.”

He had reluctantly switched on his phone when Mycroft had left. He wanted to be reachable for his brother after all and he wanted his phone to be ready when he felt the urge to contact him. He had found texts from actually everybody he knew, even Irene. She had texted that she was thinking of him and that he should stay strong. He had not answered, as usual, and after a moment of thinking, he had finally blocked her number like he should have done long ago.

Everybody knew about his demise. It was devastating. They were all compassionate and wanted to be helpful but Sherlock didn’t want to be pitied and he didn’t want to talk about it. What was there to say? It couldn’t be undone. He had to leave it behind but it wouldn’t work if everybody he dealt with reminded him of it all the time.

Not that he would have been able to forget it even for a minute. It was following him into his dreams. Making him sleep in his brother's bed like a five-year-old who was panicking from his nightmares. It sucked. It sucked so much…

“Tea?” he asked, reaching for the kettle.

“I can do that!” Molly offered.

“I'm not sick,” Sherlock hissed. “I'm capable of boiling water.”

“Sorry,” she mumbled, biting her lips.

He just couldn’t deal with this. Why had John brought her? He shot him a glance that wasn't friendly at all. John ducked his head and gave him an apologetic look.

Sherlock turned away and filled the kettle. “Where's Rosie?”

“Oh, Mrs Hudson is on the playground with her. I'll bring her next time if you want.”

Sherlock nodded. At least Rosie wouldn't pity him and walk on eggshells.

“Oh, I've got biscuits in my bag. I'm getting them!” Molly stood up and walked back into the hallway.

“Sorry, Sherlock,” John said quietly.

“Well, I guess I can't avoid her forever. But you should have asked.”

“I know. It won't happen again. So how are you? How do you get along with him?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Not very good and pretty good. He's really supportive.” He would not tell John that he had shared the bed with his brother…

“That's great. The latter, I mean…” He broke off, sounding uncomfortable.

Sherlock sighed. He wanted to be alone. Or with Mycroft. He filled the pot after putting a generous amount of Earl Grey into it. He remembered the tea set; it had belonged to Grandma Holmes.

“Chocolate biscuits!” Molly said too loudly when she entered the kitchen again.

She provided everybody with plates and biscuits and then they sat down together. For a long moment, nobody said a word.

“Will you come to the morgue soon?” Molly broke the silence eventually.

“What for?”

She blushed. “Experiments, or cases.”

Sherlock couldn’t have cared less about whipping corpses or putting fingers into acid. “I don't do experiments now. And there are no cases. Where should they come from?” he said, trying not to sound aggressive.

John cleared his throat. “I told you Sherlock wasn’t at home since yesterday, Molly. Lestrade knows he's not up to helping him out right now. And the clients are indeed scared off by the reporters.”

At home. Sherlock wondered why these words sounded so foreign to him. 221b was his home after all. This was Mycroft's home. And still… He glanced around in the big, light kitchen. Light-brown wood covering the fridge and the dishwasher, a copper-coloured vintage coffee machine… It already seemed so familiar even though he had nearly never been here before the previous day.

“It's so old-fashioned here,” Molly said, doing the same.

“Well, like Mycroft,” John threw in with a grin.

Sherlock grabbed the edge of the table. “I like it.”

“Oh, it is nice!” John and Molly said at the same time.

Sherlock bit his lip and everybody was relieved when John's phone rang. “Oh, it's Harry. Be right back.” He took the call and left the kitchen.

Molly didn’t waste any time. “How are you, Sherlock? What can I do to help you?”

“Nothing! What do you want to do?”

She backed away. And then she said something that felt like a punch into his gut. “Perhaps… you know… it was your first time, wasn’t it?”

“My what?”

She blushed severely but went on talking. It was clear that this wasn’t a spontaneous idea; she had thought about it for a while. “I saw it, Sherlock. They… touched you and… perhaps you should… you know, make a better experience to… cover it.”

Sherlock was speechless. He stared at her, the memories of the hand grabbing his dick and how it had felt to get a dirty, stinking penis shoved into his mouth filling his brain once more.

“Sorry, Harry just wanted to know… What's wrong?” John looked from one to the other.

Molly stood up. “I… Sorry, Sherlock. I guess that wasn’t…”

“Wasn’t what, Molly?” Sherlock got up as well, leaning forward on the table. “Very sensitive? Telling me to fuck someone to get over having been raped?”

“You did what?!” John stood there, gaping.

“I'm sorry!”

“With whom?! With you?” Sherlock felt his pulse race. “Oh, I'm sure that will cure me! Will you never give up? Are you using even this to get me in bed? That will never happen!”

“You do love me! You said it and you meant it!”

John shook his head. “Molly, we spoke about that!”

“But he never spoke with me!”

Sherlock stared at her with narrowed eyes. “Because it was clear that I didn’t mean it! You forced me to say it!”

“But…”

“Go. Just go and leave me alone.” Sherlock picked up a few biscuits and without thinking, he threw them at her. “You can put that in your mouth!”

Molly sobbed and ran out of the kitchen, crushing the biscuits under her shoes.

John looked as if he had been hit. “God, Sherlock, I'm so fucking sorry. I'd have never expected her to say something that stupid.”

Sherlock sat down on his chair again. “It's okay. It wasn’t your fault. I should have spoken with her about this bloody phone call long ago. But I didn’t expect her to be so thick…”

“Neither did I. But I explained everything to her. And what she just said… God, and they say women are more sensitive than men…”

Sherlock nodded. “Not she obviously. Even though… She does have a point, John.”

“What do you mean?”

“It _was_ my first time. My first blowjob if you want to call it that, the first time somebody touched my dick in a sexual way. And it will be the last. That's sex for me then. This…” He broke off, unable to put his feelings in words.

John laid his hand on his forearm. “I can't even express how sorry I am that you had to go through this. It will stay with you for a long time, we both know that. But it doesn’t have to be your only experience. You're still young.”

“Are you volunteering?”

John blushed. “No, I mean…”

“Don't worry, John. That was just a poor attempt at a joke.”

“It's not that you're not attractive. You are…”

“Just forget it. I've never been interested in sex. It's just that…”

“…that this shouldn’t be the only time. I totally understand. But even if she was right about that, she had no right to say that, clearly hinting that it should be her. She'll never get that you're gay…”

Sherlock was surprised. “You know that?”

“Well, you told me, right on the first day. Not with these words but… Irene surprised me though…”

“I never wanted anything from her!”

“But you were fascinated by her.”

“By her cunningness, yes. Not her body. She might think that. She texted me again…”

“Oh. She heard about it, too… Did you answer?”

“I never do. I lied when I told you. To make you feel better about texting with Eurus, you know? And I blocked her number now. I can't stand it, John. Everybody looks down on me, the poor victim…”

“You're not! And I don't! Nobody who cares for you does!”

“I hate that, John! I don't want to feel like this! I don't want good advice and pats on the head. I don't know how to go on…” Sherlock felt tears welling up in his eyes, and he definitely didn’t want that either…

But John's eyes got wet as well. “I know, God, I wish I could do something! I…”

The vibrating of Sherlock's phone interrupted him.

_Straight out of a meeting with the PM. He kills me with his stupidity. Almost slammed the door. How's your day? Did you eat something? MH_

Sherlock stared at the display. Then he smiled.

_Molly brought cookies but I threw them at her. So no. I could cook dinner tonight? SH_

_Wait, what? Why did you do that? And that would be nice. There should be enough in the fridge. Surprise me. MH_

Sherlock didn’t want to tell him what had happened with Molly.

_She got on my nerves. And I will do that. SH_

_I won't be home late. Might bring some work. I will let you know when I'm leaving. MH_

_So dinner's ready when the man of the house arrives? SH_

_Just so. MH_

_Go run the country, brother, and I shall spoil you later. SH_

_Sounds good to me. Take care. MH_

“Is that Mycroft?”

“Hm?” Sherlock looked up from his phone. “Yes. He's being cheeky.”

“It's great. Your smile.”

“ _He's_ great, really. I feel… safe here. With him. I mean…”

“I know what you mean. What he did for you, awesome…”

“You know it?!”

“Oh, wow, he didn’t tell you? Well, I - let's say - deduced it. He didn’t admit it but it was obvious.”

Sherlock swallowed. “Well…”

“Sherlock, you do know you can trust me?” John sounded hurt. “I would have done the same if I could have!”

“I know, sorry. It was bad but…”

“They got what they deserved. Listen, Sherlock, you can call me anytime, day and night. If you feel like talking to me, please know that I'm there. And even if you never return to solving cases, not that I'd think that, but even if, I'll always be your friend. I might not be able to do… you know… what we talked about but…”

Sherlock smiled. “I wouldn’t have asked you, John. You're not really my type.”

John didn’t ask who was his type but got up. “Good. Anything you need, Sherlock, let me know. I have to go now but as I said, contact me anytime.”

“Thank you. You and my brother, you're my rocks.”

“I'm so glad you get along so well with him. He really loves you. And so do I. Platonically, I mean. Not that I mind you being gay!” he added, pointing at Sherlock. “Not in the least!”

Sherlock could feel his heart get heavy once more. He wouldn’t have wanted to have sex with John. The thought was absurd. But the fact was, there was nobody who would erase these experiences from his mind. Not that this would have been possible anyway. But there would also be nobody who showed him how it was really meant to be, with whom he could have something nice and tender and pleasant and – arousing. He would have to live with his only sex being rape and violence because there was nobody he wanted to have so close, not even for this purpose. It would only end miserably as well…

He brought John to the door and they embraced before John left him alone, obviously sensing his thoughts and looking very unhappy.

Sherlock slowly returned to the kitchen. Then he straightened his back. He had something to do. He would cook for his brother. It was the least he could do. But before, he should better clean up the kitchen floor…

*****

“That looks really good, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I can cook if I must. I don't bother too much about eating though, not even… under normal circumstances.”

“In opposite to me, you mean?” Mycroft winked at him to show him that he wasn’t resenting him anything.

To his delight, a small smile graced Sherlock's handsome features. Handsome? It felt strange to think that about his brother. But he was indeed very attractive so he was only stating facts. To himself only, after all.

“Yes, as you are so nastily obese, brother mine.”

“I am, huh?” Mycroft sat down after slipping out of his jacket. It felt nice to come home to a dinner someone had prepared for him – for the first time in his adult life actually. He quickly reminded himself to not getting used to this. Even if Sherlock was willing to cook for him regularly – rather sooner than later he would return to his usual life in Baker Street. Mycroft was glad though he seemed to feel so comfortable in his house, given the circumstances.

“Ghastly overweight,” Sherlock said with a wink of his own and filled the plates with pasta and a deliciously smelling sauce.

“In this case, down with it.”

“Bon appetite, brother mine.”

Mycroft lifted his glass – water again. “A toast on the cook.”

“You can have wine or something else but… Why do I even say that. It's your house and you can drink whatever you want.”

“No, it's fine. Better for me.” Mycroft knew he tended to drink too much when he came home from work. He didn’t feel the urge now. He had company. The only company he cared about after all.

“Less calories.”

“For sure.”

“You know… I do feel bad about it now. These stupid jokes about your diet. You never needed one in the last I guess thirty years.”

“Ah, I don't know. It was a nice tradition - you teasing me with it.”

“I didn’t mean it as a tease.”

Mycroft smiled. “I know. But at least you spoke with me at all when you mocked me.”

Sherlock grimaced. “God, I _was_ an arsehole.”

“ _Brat_ , Sherlock. We had this before.” Mycroft didn’t like this at all. Sherlock had enough on his plate as it was. He really didn’t need more unpleasant feelings. “It's fine. I'm a big boy.”

“I wish I was one, too!” Sherlock let his cutlery drop and hit on the table with his palm.

Mycroft was taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“Why can't I just forget it? I'm a bit bruised up and everything else has been washed off for days now. I should be able to function and go on… It wasn’t even a big deal!”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Did your visitors tell you that? That you should just get over it? Is this why you threw biscuits at Miss Hooper?”

“No! Ha, Molly. She said I should have sex so I forget this experience.”

“What?!” Mycroft felt something hot flaming up in his chest and he thought that a certain pathologist was very lucky to not be here right now.

“Yeah, meaning _with her_.” Sherlock shook his head. “It's still about this 'I love you' crap. She seriously believes it…”

“Oh. The poor, stupid woman…”

“That sums it up quite well. But I am to blame for that in a way; I never spoke with her about it. And dammit, I never explained my actions there to you! What sort of a fucking brother am I?!” The younger man's bright eyes were wide with anger.

“Sherlock, please. It's alright. You did what you…”

“I never planned to shoot you, Mycroft! Not for a bloody second! I knew what Eurus wanted me to do and I let her believe she had won just to turn the game against her! And after it I had nothing better to do than to send Lestrade to you and I never thought of talking to you. I'm really a complete failure, the family idiot just as you said…”

“Silence, Sherlock. Don't do that. I figured that out very quickly; what you did was very smart.” He had wondered though what Sherlock would have done if Eurus had not sedated them… But he would not ask him, especially not now. Some things were better left unsaid.

“Smart, yes… I’m so smart that I'm running into one stupid situation after the other; well, this time I got my punishment.” And to Mycroft's devastation, his eyes filled with tears once more.

Mycroft stood up and walked around the table, gently stroking Sherlock's shoulder. “My sweet boy, it'll get better, I promise you.” He hardly knew what he was saying, Sherlock's pain hurting him too much to think clearly. Not that this would have helped. Nothing he could say would make him feel better.

Sherlock buried his face against his stomach and sobbed, and Mycroft held him close. There had to be something he could do to ease his little brother's pain, but he didn’t know what. All he could think of was giving him comfort by being there. He could only hope it was enough.

And then Sherlock's phone buzzed and both of them groaned.

Sherlock took it out and swallowed. “It's Mummy… Please, I can't…”

Their parents had called Mycroft during the day and he had tried to explain to them that Sherlock only wanted rest and peace now. But of course they needed to speak to him eventually.

“Let me,” he said, knowing this was the worst moment. There wouldn’t be any good ones so soon but Sherlock couldn’t be forced to speak to them or anybody when he was already crying.

With a grateful look, Sherlock handed him the still ringing phone. He sat down again.

“Hello, Mummy, it's Mycroft... No, Sherlock is busy right now… He's okay… Not today… In a few days… Please, he will call you when he's feeling like it… No, please! We will come to you when… Yes… I'm taking care of him, of course.” It took a few more minutes until he had calmed her down enough to end the call. When he handed Sherlock the phone, he switched it off at once.

“Thank you, Mycroft,” he said very quietly, his face a mask of sadness and depression.

Mycroft wondered if he should get professional help for him. But what good would that do as Sherlock would refuse it anyway? No. He had to deal with this himself. “Listen to me, Sherlock. We changed the subject but I want to answer your question from before. You were, thank God, not hurt severely physically. You were not… anally raped.”

“Yeah, could have been much worse…” Sherlock mumbled with reddened cheeks.

The last thing Mycroft wanted was to embarrass him even further but he needed to continue. “It could have. But what they did… hurt you in more ways than the physical side. Especially because… you are not used to… I have no idea if it would have been easier to handle if you hadn't been… a virgin. But I guess for someone not used to being touched at all, it must be even more traumatic. You have every right to feel like you do, and it will take you more time to recover. But you will because you are strong, you are smart, and you are not alone with it. John is on your side, and even Miss Hooper with her horrible attempt at giving advice is an ally after all. And our parents won't leave you alone until you are in the best of shape again. You will get out of this dark place because you won't be allowed to stay in it, not by your own personality and not by the people who care about you. And even if everybody else turns their backs on you, which they won't, _I'll_ always be there. And not because I feel responsible for you as your older brother or because I think I had to do it but because I want to. I… never told you and you know what I used to say about sentiments, but…” - He _despised_ sentiments and he _abhorred_ talking about sentiments but sometimes it was just necessary - “I love you, Sherlock. I love you from the bottom of my Iceman heart. You're my family and there's nothing…”

Sherlock stood up so fast that he stopped talking and followed his example, and then his brother slung his arms around his neck and sobbed even harder than before.

Mycroft patted his back and held him and his _not-so-Iceman_ heart pulled together when Sherlock mumbled next to his ear, “I love you, too.”

He was close to joining his brother in crying but he fought the tears back. He kissed Sherlock's temple. “Everything will be okay. Believe an old man.”

Sherlock chuckled wetly. “An old, obese man.”

“They know best.”

“Do they?” Sherlock pulled away and looked into his eyes. His own ones were reddened but the tears had changed their colour to a very bright, sparkling green. It felt strange to look into them. They were simply breathtaking, even with the nasty bruise under the left one. In fact it stressed their beauty even more…

Mycroft shook these weird thoughts off. “Yes, brother mine, they do. Come, let's see if we find some dessert in this good old fridge.”

*****

_“Hey, you like that, huh? Nice big dick, just for you?”_

_Sherlock tasted saltiness and urine and skin that hadn't been washed for days. He gagged when the disgusting thing was shoved into his throat. At least it wasn’t very thick. He winced when a knife scratched over his neck._

_“Remember – no biting. And if you puke over me, I'll slit you up, too. And you - get him out. Yeah. Oh, big boy, our detective!”_

_“Yes, man, he's huge.”_

_“Rub him hard. And you - suck me, what are you waiting for?”_

_Sherlock had never done that before. He knew he was technically homosexual but he had long ago chosen to not live it out. Not because he thought it was wrong to be gay but because people were just not appealing to him. They were slow and boring and he didn’t want to have sex with someone he couldn’t talk to._

_And this was just disgusting. He tried to escape into his mind palace but it didn’t work._

_“This will be the only time, boy, enjoy it. Nobody will ever give you that anymore.”_

_[No. He didn’t say this!] Sherlock swallowed around the intruder in his throat and accidentally bit his tormentor._

_“Ouch, you arsehole! Take that!”_

_And the knife slid into his throat._

_Sherlock gurgled and screamed and fought back and then…_

…he dropped out of the bed, panting, sweating and feeling sick. He gagged dryly and then he smashed his flat hand against the wall. Fucking Molly… Just another nice detail added to his nightmare.

He protected his eyes with his hand when the light went on.

“Sherlock, oh… Are you hurt?”

Mycroft, wearing his silky pyjamas, kneeled down next to him, and Sherlock silently reached out for him, embracing his neck. Once more he pressed his face against his brother's warm throat, shaking his head to answer his question, and he shuddered when he was tightly hugged and Mycroft's beautiful, soft voice murmured in his ear, “Come, little brother. Join me in my bed.”

And somehow Sherlock knew he would not sleep in this guest room again so soon.

# 6

“Sir? You remember your meeting with the PM?”

Mycroft looked up to his personal assistant. “Oh. Yes. Of course. Thank you, Anthea.”

He had no idea how long he'd been sitting at his desk, staring at the same columns of the report from the Foreign Office without reading a single word.

All he could think of was Sherlock and there hadn't been a moment on this day when he hadn't wondered what his brother was doing and how he was coping. Would more people from Sherlock's regular (and now not so regular) life show up at his doorstep, making him feel even worse than he already did? What would he do otherwise? Mycroft knew how easily Sherlock was bored. He couldn’t sleep all day.

After Mycroft had discovered him on the floor of the guest room in an upset state, he had taken him to his bed once more. Sherlock had fallen asleep after more than half an hour next to him, closer than the night before, his head on Mycroft's shoulder, his hand on his chest – basically in Mycroft's arms. No nightmares seemed to have troubled him afterwards. It was rather clear that Mycroft's presence was spending him a lot of comfort and that he was feeling safe beside him.

Mycroft had not slept a lot in this night, watching over his brother, very, very aware of his closeness to him, and thinking about the past and the messed-up present. He had remembered the times when Sherlock had been a child and had slept like this many times – actually cuddled against him, a warm bundle of sweetness and innocence.

But his brother wasn't that child anymore. He was a man who had gone through so much – his drug escapades, the disaster with Moriarty, the torture in Serbia, his several injuries, the guilt he had felt after he had unwillingly caused the death of Mary Watson – the woman who had almost killed him. Mycroft had thought she had gotten what she'd deserved but his brother had fallen apart at the seams once more, causing his friendship to Doctor Watson to end for a while. They had reconciled and Mycroft had thought his brother would find some peace now. He had been so wrong. First the mess with Eurus – that Sherlock could thank him for - and now this horrible event that had seemed to push him over the edge. Everything else he had either shaken off or had fought with getting high. But this time he was so desperate that he didn't seem to consider this option at all. Which was good of course but alarming at the same time. It was as if he'd given up hope that he could ever find back to normality.

And a fact that Mycroft had to admit to himself was that he feared the day when Sherlock would regain his former strength and go on with his life – without him as he'd done for so long. It was a nasty thought as of course he wanted Sherlock to feel good and shake these horrors off. But it was nice to be needed by the one person he really cared about. And it was nice to have Sherlock so close again, physically and emotionally – Sherlock the man, not the child. A man with the face of an angel and a body to die for. And that Mycroft even noticed this was even harder and more disturbing to admit. It was hard to miss though when Sherlock's warm breath was ghosting against his neck and when this body, consisting of smooth, warm skin and muscles and perfection, was pressed against his and he had to look at a round, perfect bottom that was made of – and for - sin.

He got up to face his boss, feeling jaded and wired at the same time. It was a lot to deal with – Sherlock's desperation that was breaking the heart he denied to have towards everybody except for his brother now, and the disturbing fact that no matter how unwelcome and unexpected, his feelings for him had left the grounds of brotherly affection. He had noticed his brother's beauty the day before and dismissed it as inappropriate and weird. But these feelings were there. This night so close to him made it impossible to deny it.

Sherlock may never find out as it would scare him away forever, for more than one reason. Mycroft would never allow letting these feelings hurt Sherlock once more. His brother had gone through sexual abuse in the nastiest way, and he needed his love and his strength and his care and not a misguided, illegal and immoral desire that he would never return.

Unfortunately Mycroft knew he would not be able to suppress it so easily. Especially not when he spent his nights with Sherlock at his side for the next days or even weeks, as it was rather clear that Sherlock could only sleep peacefully when he was lying next to him. He had still been sleeping when Mycroft had left the house in the morning, and he had looked at him for a long time before he had written him a note and reluctantly left him behind.

"Holmes! You look bad today!" his boss greeted him when he entered his office without having noticed the way he'd taken.

Mycroft forced a smile on his face which was even harder than usual when he met this man. "I'm fine, sir."

"It's your brother, huh?"

Mycroft tensed. But why had he thought the old man had missed something most people in England were talking about? "It's not easy for him," he brought out.

"I can imagine. No luck yet with finding these bastards so they can be sent to jail?"

"Unfortunately not." _Because I sent them to hell already_.

"Well, I hope you'll get them. It was a disgrace. Well, let's start then..."

*****

"Oh, Mrs Hudson."

"Hello my boy! How are you? I'm sorry but I had to come here. I'm bringing you some clothes and cake and some other goodies."

Sherlock was touched. He knew he should have called her. "That's nice, come in, please."

She looked around when she stepped into the hallway. "Oh, this is really distinguished."

"It's a bit old-fashioned and out of time. But my brother likes it and so do I." He was still surprised that he felt the urge to defend Mycroft all at once. He remembered how he had mocked the interior when he had been here with John and Wiggins' people to play the – very nasty – prank on Mycroft to push him to open up about Eurus. Just another thing he had never apologised for...

"It's nice, Sherlock," his landlady said. "It looks more homely than I expected. Somehow I figured there would be just black and white designer furniture, not wood and paintings. I can imagine you like to be here."

He smiled. "I do." He led the way to the living room.

"But you don't feel well otherwise," she stated, patting his arm.

He looked down on his feet. "No. It's hard. Harder than it should be."

"My dear heart, how could it not be hard? It was... horrible and I wish I could punish these people."

Sherlock shot her a glance and she stood. "Oh, I see. Well done."

"What?! I didn't say a word!"

The old lady smiled." Perhaps I did learn a thing or two from you over the years... Don't worry. I'm glad to hear what you didn't say..."

Sherlock sighed. "My poker face doesn't work anymore." They had reached the living room and sat down on the generous sofa. "Nothing works anymore, Mrs Hudson."

Her face was a mask of compassion. "It will take time, Sherlock. But you will get out of this and you will be stronger than before. And one positive aspect has come out of it already."

Sherlock didn't have to ask which one. "Yes. My brother is very supportive and very kind."

"I never doubted he would do everything for you; you just didn't let him."

"No, I really didn't. It's a wonder he still talks to me at all."

"He loves you, Sherlock; you're probably the only one he loves. And I was always sure that deep inside you love him, too. Speaking of that... Miss Hooper came to me..."

Sherlock grimaced. "I don't want to see her again as long as I live..."

"Oh, don't be so hard on her. She doesn't know it better."

"Shouldn't she though? I never encouraged her if you don't want to count this silly situation in Sherrinford where she didn't give me any choice than to say this to her..."

"Love is the strongest motivator, Sherlock. Even more than hate. She can't switch that off."

Sherlock shrugged. "Her feelings are really not my priority."

"Of course they aren't. You need to heal and you will."

"You think so? I'm not so sure about that... If I never had to solve a case in my life again and could stay here, I wouldn't mind..." He could be honest with her. He had always been able to. Except for Mycroft, she was the only one he had met since it had happened with whom he was feeling truly comfortable.

"I doubt that it will be enough for you forever, but you can do that if you want to. Your brother would be happy about it."

Would he?

Mrs Hudson patted his hand. "Nobody wants to see someone he loves bringing himself into dangerous situations. I saw him in the hospital when Mary had shot at you. He was so desperate."

"Oh. I don't even recall that he visited me."

"He didn't come back when you were fully conscious again, certainly thinking you don't want him to be there."

Sherlock bit his lip. That said it all about his behaviour towards Mycroft for the past thirty years...

"You know, Sherlock, I believe things happen for a reason, even or maybe especially the nasty things. And this was meant to bring you and your brother closer together. He will be there for you and you have the chance to have a really good relationship with him. It will certainly help you in many ways."

"You are really a wise woman, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock smiled at her.

She beamed at him. "Of course I am. And now let me unpack what I brought and then I'll make tea for us."

***** 

When Mycroft came home and hang up his coat, he heard voices from the living room, quickly identified as the ones of Sherlock and DI Greg Lestrade. He had texted with Sherlock earlier and had been told that Mrs Hudson had dropped by for spoiling his brother a bit and now he had a visitor again. His usually empty house was developing into a meeting area for Sherlock's friends. Mycroft didn’t mind as long as they came to support his brother, not to bother him. He wondered if Lestrade was here as a friend or as a policeman searching for help. Of course it would be good for Sherlock if he had something to do to distract him but his brother had not withdrawn to Mycroft's house from his usual life without a reason. If he was up to it, Mycroft would support it though. As long… As long as Sherlock stayed with him. Of course he could go to Baker Street during the day but Mycroft wanted him to come back. He shook his head over these thoughts. His brother would do what he decided was the right thing for him. This was not a time for selfishness. Especially not because of reasons of a completely wrong nature…

The two men looked up when he entered the room. Mycroft tensed when he realised his reaction to Sherlock's smile when he saw him. He had never believed in this stupid stuff about butterflies in one's stomach. But right now he could feel them flutter around at the sight of his handsome brother looking at him. He tried to not show his feelings of utter self-contempt and fear. He had no idea how to deal with this. 'This' meaning being in love with his own little brother… Because what else should he call it?

“Good afternoon, Mr Lestrade, Sherlock,” he said rather stiffly, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Good afternoon, Mr Holmes. I hope you don't mind me dropping by. I wanted to check on Sherlock and ask him for his opinion on a case.”

Mycroft glanced at Sherlock, who smiled again.

“I could help him,” he said, and Mycroft felt a pang of pain and therefore guilt. Sherlock was recovering. Soon he would go back to his normal life. And he should be happy about it…

“That's good news,” he lied.

“Yeah, my deduction abilities have not completely vanished.”

“Why should they? Everything will be fine; I told you.” Mycroft took a cup and poured himself some coffee.

“But that's about it, Lestrade,” Sherlock said. “If you have more files to look at, I'll be happy to help. But…”

“I totally understand that,” the DI assured him. “You're not ready for going out and chasing criminals at the moment.”

And Mycroft scrutinized him and he could see that Sherlock thought, 'probably never again', and he hated that it was a relief for him. He should wish for his brother to recover fully and go on with his life without needing him. He should, but somehow he couldn’t. And he wondered what sort of a big brother he was. Considering his new-found feelings for Sherlock, obviously the worst kind there was…

“I'll leave you alone now,” Greg Lestrade said and got up. “Thanks again, and you know you can call me anytime. I just wish you'd have behaved a little… more professionally after it happened so I had the chance to catch them…”

Sherlock tensed and Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “You do know people don't always act very reasonably after such an assault. Not even very smart ones.” He winked at Sherlock in a way Lestrade couldn’t see it but to make sure Sherlock knew he wasn’t at all criticising him.

“I know, sure. But it has to bother you, too!”

Mycroft put on his best mask of ice. “Of course it does. Eventually we'll get to them.”

Lestrade nodded slowly and there was a flicker in his eyes that Mycroft had not expected. “Yeah. Well, I'll go then. Bye, Mr Holmes, Sherlock…”

With this he left and Mycroft had the strong feeling he wouldn’t waste any thought on Sherlock's attackers anymore.

“He got it,” Sherlock said, coming to the same conclusion. “Just like Mrs Hudson…”

“She did what?!”

“It's okay, Mycroft, she was rather pleased. I didn’t say a word but she deduced it. Like him.”

“Oh. Never underestimate a goldfish…” Mycroft took a sip of his coffee. “Well, it's not as if they could prove anything.”

And they wouldn’t want to. Of course Lestrade knew that Mycroft in his unique position in the British government was merely untouchable and so much more powerful than him, and of course Mrs Hudson, who more or less considered Sherlock her son, wouldn’t mind his rapists being dead.

“Your friends are really supportive,” he said. “Well, except for Miss Hooper.”

Sherlock grimaced. “Yeah. Don't need to see her again so soon. So – how was your day? What would you like to do now? I haven't started cooking yet, sorry.”

Mycroft smiled. “I'm glad I got out of there alive and without strangling somebody… I thought we could have some takeaway food delivered?”

Sherlock's eyes brightened up. “Oh, yeah!”

“Your choice. And perhaps we could watch a movie together? My choice?”

His brother's smile did things to his heart once more. “Deal, brother dear!”

Mycroft smiled back and thought, _'I'm doomed'_ …

*****

Sherlock snorted. “Really, boy? You can't see she's a traitor?” He grabbed another handful of the ghastly popcorn he had insisted on buying for their movie evening. Of course Mycroft was happy that he wanted to eat something and even something rather unhealthy. He was not exactly overweight and perhaps the sugar would cheer him up.

Mycroft had chosen an old spy movie, knowing his brother would love to shred the rather thin plot apart. He had been right. The protagonist had just made a huge mistake and it would cost him his best friend.

They were sitting on the couch, next to each other, Sherlock almost close enough to touch him. Mycroft was incredibly aware of his presence; the shampoo smell of his hair, the warmth he radiated, his entire luring body.

“Yes, what's that with these heterosexual men and women in need. They always fall for it,” he said casually before he could really think about it.

Sherlock tensed next to him and grimaced as if he agreed to this, and Mycroft simultaneously felt ashamed and devastated. In the end Sherlock had fallen for Irene Adler's ruse and a woman had lured him into the trap that had led to him being manhandled. But he knew why he had said it and even though he wasn’t proud of himself, he somehow had to be sure. Even though Sherlock would never want him, no matter if he was gay or straight. He had thought he was gay until the Adler case. But even after that, he hadn't been sure. Sherlock's reaction seemed to speak loud and clear, but that changed when he spoke.

“I don't know… Obviously gay men fall for it, too. At least I did. Twice. Three times if you count Mary…”

Mycroft knew he shouldn’t be relieved. It didn’t matter. But he was. “That was because of your good heart, brother,” he said and his own heart skipped a beat or two when Sherlock smiled at him.

“Sentiment, I know. Chemical defect and all.”

“You don't have any defects, brother mine. And sentiment might not always be a disadvantage…”

“No, it really isn’t,” Sherlock agreed and he was foolishly happy about it even though of course Sherlock hadn't meant it like this.

When the movie was over, they cleaned up and walked upstairs. Sherlock's steps became slower after they had reached the second floor.

Mycroft knew he had to say it. “Why don't you sleep next to me right away?” he asked calmly. “Just in case you get bothered by nightmares again.”

“You don't mind?”

Actually Mycroft did - but not because he didn’t enjoy Sherlock's company. He enjoyed it way too much. But of course he didn’t show it. “Not at all. Do you want to use the bathroom first?”

Sherlock nodded. “Thank you, brother. I know you'll be happy when I leave you alone again…”

“That's not true. You can stay as long as you want, Sherlock. Even if you return to Baker Street for cases one day actually. The flat is too small for two men and a child anyway. You could live here and just go there for working. You have a lot of space here. I should have offered that long ago.” He knew it was not reasonable to offer it now that his feelings for Sherlock had taken such a wrong turn. But hell – he wanted him to stay, no matter how difficult it would be for him.

Sherlock was taken aback. “You didn’t because I treated you like shit,” he reminded him.

“I didn’t because I thought you wouldn’t want it,” Mycroft corrected him. “Of course you can move back in with John again if you want to but if you want to stay here, be assured that you're welcome.”

Sherlock surprised him with a firm embrace, and after a second Mycroft took him in his arms, reminding himself that this was nothing more than brotherly affection on Sherlock's part. For him it was so much more now and he could be grateful for his self-control and ability to hide his feelings, even from his smart little brother.

 *****

Sherlock woke up slowly. He saw at once that it was still the middle of the night. “Mycroft?” he said quietly but he could hear that his brother was sound asleep. But a part of him wasn’t…

They had fallen asleep with a distance between them. As Sherlock had not suffered from a nightmare like the previous night, he hadn't snuggled up against his brother even though he would have liked to do it. But he didn’t want to bother Mycroft even more than he already did. And Mycroft had made no attempt to pull him closer.

But now he was pressed against Sherlock's back with his full length. And this one very awake part of him was pressing firmly against his arse.

This situation was as embarrassing as it could get and Sherlock would have expected to feel terrified, especially after what had happened to him. But he didn’t. Not only because Mycroft was sleeping and not doing it deliberately. Of course his brother would freak out if he woke up now and realised what he was doing.

The reason he didn’t feel bad with it was that he actually liked it. He was so aware of his brother's warm, breathing body so close to him. His clean, warm smell, his comforting presence. The one man in this world who would never harm him.

Molly's suggestion inevitably popped up in his mind – cover the bad experience with a good one.

Would that work? Did she have a point?

Sherlock didn’t know it. But he knew one thing – there was only one person he trusted enough to give it a try.

The only question was if Mycroft would be up to it. A part of him certainly would…

He moved backwards very carefully, causing the hard object to push against his crack even harder. When Mycroft mumbled something in his sleep, he kept still. But on his front he felt an unmistakable stir.

It took him a long time to find back to sleep, his thoughts running wild. Something would change the next day and he could only hope he wouldn’t upset his brother so much that he would drop him. If he lost their new-found relationship, it would hit him even harder than the rape.

# 7

Mycroft had a long day full of dreadful meetings with even more dreadful people. Only some texting with Sherlock kept him in a state to endure it and not starting to yell at people. When he was finally allowed to leave the office, he knew he had to run a few kilometres on his treadmill to calm down again. He had not used it once since Sherlock had moved in with him.

In the morning Sherlock had been very quiet, as if something beside the memories was bothering him. Mycroft hadn't asked him what was up, feeling that Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate that. The phone calls from reporters (that he never answered) had become fewer and there were no new appearances of the godforsaken video anymore. It was yesterday's news but Sherlock was still suffering from it. But he had started to recover, so much was sure. It was only a matter of time until he would return to Baker Street, at least partly.

The only good thing about his busy day was that he had been distracted from thinking inappropriate things about his brother.

But when he came home, Sherlock looked better than ever, and it made him gulp. He had showered and was clean-shaven, and he wore one of his black suits with a shirt with several buttons open.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "I brought dinner as I said but I would like to use my treadmill before we eat if you don't mind."

"Not in the least. May I keep you company in the gym?"

"Of course if you can bear the view." He knew he would feel very self-conscious in the presence of his super fit, slim brother but he knew he wouldn't have to expect any jokes about his weight from him anymore. These times were over. “You can cheer for me then,” he added, blushing at this cheeky offer.

But Sherlock just grinned. “Have you got any pompoms? And shall I wear a short skirt?”

Mycroft blushed even harder. “It would certainly suit you, Mr Curly-Hair-Pouty-Lips,” he retorted, wondering where this was coming from all at once. And he smiled when Sherlock giggled. It was the first time he heard him laugh since… Probably since that day in Buckingham Palace, and then he had – along with John Watson - laughed about _him_ …

“You're funny, Mycroft,” Sherlock stated and he winked.

“That's why they call me the Funman.”

“Not sure if I believe that, brother mine,” Sherlock said, and Mycroft shuddered at his affectionate tone. They really had come a long way over the past couple of days.

“Well, let's see if I can be turned into the Fitman,” he said dryly. “I'll change into my training outfit now. No laughing please.”

Sherlock smiled, his eyes sparkling. “Can't promise that.”

And Mycroft really didn’t mind.

*****

Sherlock had never seen his brother in tight, short training shorts and an even tighter work-out-shirt. He couldn’t remember seeing him in anything else than his suits, or, lately, in his posh pyjamas.

His brother looked really good. That was the bottom line of his observations. He was tall, slim – albeit not nearly as chiselled as Sherlock was – and his body was proportioned very nicely with his long legs and arms and a surprisingly pert arse. And his tight shorts showed an impressive bulge on the front.

It wouldn’t exactly be a punishment to get tactile with him. He just didn’t know how to put that in words that wouldn’t make Mycroft run away or throw him out of his house, and he didn’t know about the right time to make such a delicate approach. He had seen that Mycroft had noticed that something was up but his brother hadn't asked. He did seem a bit tense as well actually. And he couldn’t even imagine his reaction if Sherlock suggested having sex. And still he was convinced that it would help him, and Mycroft had promised to help him in every way, hadn't he? He wasn’t sure if incest was part of that deal though but he would find out soon enough.

He cleared his throat now. “You look like a pro, brother dear.”

Mycroft smiled and stepped onto the treadmill. “I am, brother mine. Well, you can try to cheer any time now.”

Sherlock grinned and clapped his hands and then fisted the air. “Go, Mycroft, go!”

Mycroft rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “That must do I guess…”

It was not really possible to have a conversation when one of them was working out and had to watch his breath and concentrate so Sherlock just watched him and eventually scrolled through his messages on his smartphone, answering a few but deleting most of them.

But one eye he always kept on his brother. He was a sight. The dignified, always impeccably dressed and behaved string-puller sweating and panting on the treadmill, the muscles working in his thighs and calves rather beautifully, his usually pale face reddened. He looked so much younger and more agile than usual and Sherlock was stunned by the unusual side his brother was showing him.

Still he didn’t say anything about his idea, and after his work-out session, Mycroft took a shower while Sherlock took care of warming up their dinner.

They sat in the living room together, eating in companionable silence until Sherlock couldn’t endure his tension any longer. He put his cutlery onto his almost empty plate. “Mycroft,” he said quietly without looking at his brother, who had just finished eating as well.

“Yes?” He used his white tissue.

“There's… something I'd like to speak with you about.”

Mycroft leaned back in his chair. “Well, of course. I'm all ears.” He sounded tense as well and Sherlock finally looked at him, deducing that he expected Sherlock to tell him that he was going to move back into 221b. Sherlock had no intention to do so.

“Well. You remember what Molly said to me?”

“About making a better experience? Yes. Oh. Oh…” He looked down on his thighs and Sherlock needed a moment to understand.

“I do think about doing it as she might have had a point, no matter how insensitive it was to suggest it - but not with _her_ obviously.” He wondered how Mycroft could even consider this. He had explicitly told him that he was gay. So had Mycroft by the way… Not that Sherlock would have ever doubted that. His brother oozed homosexuality, at least for a gay man like Sherlock.

Mycroft searched his gaze again. “Oh, yes, of course.” The question 'who else then?` was right-out visible above his head.

Sherlock could imagine how he was skimming through an imaginary list. A very short list. Probably John would pop up at first. And then? Well, the second candidate was equally obvious. And equally out of the question…

Very predictably, Mycroft said, “Not sure if the doctor will be up to this, Sherlock. He claims to be very straight and as much as he likes you, he will probably not be comfortable with this.” His voice was calm and didn’t show any emotion.

“I wasn't thinking of John, Mycroft. And also not of Lestrade.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, looking puzzled, and then Sherlock could see the exact moment when he understood. He paled and his mouth fell open. “What – me?”

Sherlock could feel his cheeks flame up. “Who else? I trust you, more than anybody else. You did this for me – having them killed. You know my state way better than anybody else. And you're my type.” Where had this come from all at once?! He had never thought about this before.

“Your type,” Mycroft repeated, his tone expressing complete disbelief.

Sherlock didn’t have any intention to explain himself on this matter, knowing he couldn’t do that anyway. He only knew it was true. “Will you do it? In some way we'd have to agree on yet?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I can't, Sherlock. I'm your brother and I would never take advantage of you, especially not in this emotional confused state. I could never forgive myself.”

“But I'm asking you for it! How could you take advantage of me then?” He wanted it, Sherlock realised. This phrase only made sense if Mycroft had already thought about it… And his refusal had sounded more than half-heartedly… It made his heart feel very strange and there was no time to think it through, to analyse. But it even strengthened his decision. “Please, Mycroft! I will never meet anyone who interests me and I don't want this mess to be my only sex! I want to feel…” He broke off, too embarrassed to go on.

“How, Sherlock?” His voice was hoarse, his eyes boring into Sherlock's.

There was no backing away now, as embarrassing as this situation was. “Caressed, not tortured,” he whispered. “Touched with… affection, not to hurt and humiliate me. Please. Just… something. Touching my… Allowing me to touch you a bit… Oh, God, please don't let me beg! It's killing me that this should be my only time! I can't stop thinking about it and I can't endure it anymore. You said you would do anything for me!”

Mycroft could have said, 'everything but not that!´ and explain that it was wrong, against the law and out of the question, and Sherlock would have stopped, apologized and hoped it hadn't brought them apart forever. What he instead said, very quietly, was, “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. And yes, as soon as I don't feel comfortable with it, I'll tell you to stop and we forget it. It's not going to happen but I promise you. And of course I won't ever tell anybody about it. It has to stay a secret; I'm very aware of that.” He had thought the consequences through.

Mycroft scrutinized him, more thoroughly than ever before, and after what seemed to be ages he nodded. “If that's what you want, I'll do it. Touch you. Let you touch me if you feel you need that.”

“Yes. I need it. I need you!”

Mycroft looked at him as if he wanted to say, 'pinch me to prove that this is really happening' and Sherlock had a very strange suspicion but he knew he couldn’t speak it out. There was no way to ask his brother in this moment if he fancied him. He would find that out for sure soon enough. What was he feeling for Mycroft? Well, he loved him. As a brother. But even an emotionally inexperienced man like Sherlock knew that the fact that he had considered nobody else than Mycroft to be the one to explore a better sort of sexuality had to mean he didn’t quite see him as only his brother anymore… It made him feel all dizzy and fearful and excited. He wasn’t used to feel so much but then – he had been all emotionally messed up since this crap had happened to him. And whatever would happen with Mycroft would be the complete opposite…

“I'll take care of you, Sherlock, don't worry. When?”

“Now. I showered before you came home. So right now.” Before his brother could think about it and change his mind.

Mycroft nodded. “Alright then. I'd brush my teeth and then…”

“Oh yes, me too.”

This situation was awkward with a capital 'A' but there was no way back. And Sherlock didn’t want to back away anyway. He had thought about it long enough.

“Let's go get ready then,” Mycroft said softly and his left eyelid was twitching.

He was obviously very nervous, very tense and very scared. But his pupils were massively dilated and Sherlock didn’t have to grab his wrist to know his pulse was racing…

*****

Mycroft returned Sherlock's shy smile when his little brother came into his bedroom; they had brushed their teeth in two different bathrooms. Sherlock must have taken his time with coming back as Mycroft had also shaved quickly and had still been the first to arrive. He guessed Sherlock had wanted him to go in first and await him.

It was very hard to accept that this was really going on – he would have sex with Sherlock, his own baby brother.

On one hand it was the fulfilment of his dreams of course but he would not be allowed to forget for a second that he was only supposed to show his brother how sex should really be, to give him an experience that would at least partly cover the horrors he had endured that night and that had been following him ever since. They were not to become lovers and it was all about Sherlock's wellbeing, not Mycroft's satisfaction. He was merely lending his brother a hand and he would do it with all the care and the friendliness he was capable of.

Knowing this didn’t change the fact that his cock was rock hard in his casual home trousers that he had put on after working out. Given his size, he was tenting them obscenely, and that's why he had already placed himself on the bed, a pillow over his lap. He didn’t want to scare Sherlock off at once… But inside he was tingling with expectation and his heartrate had reached a critical point. This was the most important moment of his life, as crazy as it was.

“Um, I'll undress then,” the younger man said with a quizzical look.

Mycroft smiled, trying to look encouraging and reassuring, not scared to death like he was. “Whatever you feel comfortable with, Sherlock. You need to tell me what you want me to do. And you can do with me what you wish to do.” He realised this had sounded rather needy but he had said it and he had meant it. He almost expected a mocking reply but of course none came.

“Okay.” Sherlock gave him a brief smile and then he undressed next to the bed, facing Mycroft.

It was very hard to keep a straight face when he saw more and more smooth, pale skin appearing, and when Sherlock stripped off his pants, revealing his long, rather thick dick, Mycroft caught himself pressing the pillow down on his now even stiffer prick. He knew he had to control himself but it would be so damn difficult.

When Sherlock was completely naked, he sat down on the bed and then lifted his legs to lie down next to him, laying his head against the pillow Mycroft had set up for him.

For a moment none of them spoke. But then it was Sherlock who broke the silence. “Okay. I'm ready.”

“Are you sure?” He just had to ask again.

“Yes! Just… touch my dick. You saw what he did. Do it better.”

Mycroft swallowed at the memory of having to watch his brother getting abused. But was he really any better? He pretended to be, only fulfilling Sherlock's wish, but Sherlock was not himself, hadn't been since it had happened – was he even able to judge this situation properly? Was it just desperation to use the idea of this awful woman to make himself feel better? Wouldn’t it make him feel even worse in the end? And how was Mycroft supposed to live with it if that happened?

“Stop thinking; there's no need for second thoughts,” Sherlock reprimanded him quietly. “I want it to happen because I know you'll make me feel great, and I trust you. I know you'd never hurt me. And I might be disturbed but my brain is still working fine.”

“I'm sorry, brother mine. But that's a huge step. A very unusual one in the end. I couldn’t endure it if it made you feel worse than before.”

“It won't. Please. Touch me. You don't have to start at my dick if you're not comfortable with it. Just hold me a bit and touch my back or something, and then we'll see if you feel you can go on.”

Mycroft smiled. “This should have been my text. You said it yourself, but I want to stress it: if you don't like it, just say it and I'll stop right this second.” But of course he would notice it without words and put an end to his efforts anyway. No matter how hard this would be for him… And one thing was sure – if this backfired, it would hurt their relationship, and this scared him almost as much as unwillingly hurting his brother with it.

“I will, Mycroft. But I'm sure I'll be feeling fine.”

He would perhaps now but how he'd feel afterwards was another question. But there was only one way to find out. He took a deep breath and then turned to his side to pull his brother in.

*****

Sherlock only tensed for a split second when Mycroft slung his arm around him and drew him against his chest. His hand slid over Sherlock's bare back and it was huge and warm and made him shudder but not in a bad way. He was close enough to Mycroft to smell him – his eau de cologne, his deodorant and underneath of it his warm, clean skin.

He snuggled against his neck, sighing in pleasure, and he moved his leg over Mycroft's thigh. His movement was stopped by the pillow on Mycroft's lap that his brother was holding in place with his other hand. It didn’t take a consulting detective to figure out why…

“You can take this away,” Sherlock mumbled against his throat. “It doesn’t offend me at all.”

“But it should,” Mycroft whispered. “I shouldn’t be turned on by you.”

“Yes, ugly man that I am,” Sherlock said in the same tone, trying to lighten up his brother's mood.

“You know very well it's not because of your looks. They are fine.”

“A compliment! I'm touched!” He was indeed as Mycroft continued to stroke his back tenderly.

“You're my brother and I watched Mummy changing your nappies…”

“Now that's a mood killer,” Sherlock joked. In fact he was feeling very good.

“And you went through so much… I really shouldn't…”

“Mycroft?”

“Hm?”

“Stop it. Not that!” He added when Mycroft abruptly ended his stroking efforts. “Stop thinking! I want it, you want it and now take that pillow away and get naked, too!”

“But…”

“I want to see you at least!”

Mycroft was visibly embarrassed but in the end he threw the pillow aside and Sherlock gasped. Despite their little argument and his massive doubts he was still hard and he looked huge. Instead of feeling scared by the size, Sherlock could feel his mouth water. And of course the memory of the forced blowjob came back and made him shudder but he shook it off right away. Mycroft would never ram this giant boner into his throat (and Sherlock was very happy that his rapist had been hung very modestly…) and it would be completely different.

“You okay?”

“Take your trousers off, Mycroft. Please?”

Mycroft scrutinized him again but then he wiggled himself out of his trousers and pants and took off his shirt. And then he hastily removed his socks.

Sherlock had watched him with his mouth wide open. “Fucking hell!” He was hung big as he knew but Mycroft beat him easily. His dick was not only longer but also thicker, and the head looked gigantic. It was dark red and looked like a mushroom. Without even thinking or asking for permission, Sherlock wrapped his fingers around it.

Mycroft gasped and he blushed. “Sorry, I should have asked.”

“I told you that you can do with me what you want. I was just surprised.”

“I can imagine… This feels really good.” The skin was so soft and silky, and it moved over the warm, stiff prick when he rubbed up and down. “Can you… please touch me, too?”

“Yes, brother mine.”

And then his warm hand took hold of Sherlock's thickening cock and the memory of the rape came back with full force.

_He was lying on the cold grass again, his face hurting, his heart racing, and a stinking penis was rammed into his mouth and a rough, cold hand grabbed his cock and pulled at it. He shivered in pain and fear and disgust and_

“…Sherlock! Sherlock, come back to me! You're fine, you're safe! God, I knew I shouldn’t have done it!” He was holding Sherlock with both hands now.

Mycroft's voice sounded so pained that Sherlock fought his way out of his panic attack. “No! It's not that! Don't stop!” He grinded his crotch against Mycroft's thigh.

“But you see it doesn’t work!”

“Please, Mycroft, kiss me.”

“Kiss you?”

He somehow knew this would break the spell. Kissing was an act of love and tenderness and it would work, it just had to.

He blindly reached for his brother's face and pulled him closer, and then soft, warm lips were pressed on his, and sighed again when his body and soul reacted to his first real kiss with force. He had endured Janine kissing him for the ruse regarding Magnussen, but beside that, he had never kissed anyone on the mouth. It came to him so naturally as if he'd done it a thousand times already. Their mouths were the perfect match in rhythm and pressure, their tongues seamlessly finding into an arousing, comforting dance that Sherlock could have continued forever.

His cock searched more friction, rubbing against Mycroft's leg frantically, and he moaned when Mycroft grabbed his arse cheeks to pull him even closer.

“You okay?” Mycroft groaned into his mouth and Sherlock kissed him even more fiercely as a reply.

But he needed more, and Mycroft seemed to understand without words. He urged Sherlock to straddle his lap and they both moaned when their cocks were pressed against each other for the first time. It was Sherlock's hand that found them, enwrapping them both between their heated bodies, and he stroked them firmly together. It didn’t take long before he felt an incredibly strong pull in his groin and the bottom part of his body seemed to fly off when he pulsed over their united dicks and Mycroft's stomach.

By instinct he pulled free of his brother's embrace and moved down on the bed so his face was in line with Mycroft's groin.

“No, you can't do that now, it's too early!” Mycroft protested but Sherlock stroked him soothingly over the silky side and then he took the first few inches of his brother's massive erection into his mouth.

He tasted his own come for the first time and underneath Mycroft's unique taste, and there was only a flicker of a memory of the rape before he just concentrated on the intimacy and the taste and the feeling of power over his brother, who panted heavily now, wiggling under his probing sucking, never pushing into his mouth though, not pressing his head down, just stroking him and stammering his name.

And then Mycroft stuttered, “I'm coming, get off”, and Sherlock continued to suckle at the tip of his cock, determined to not back off.

He closed his throat up and when his mouth was filled with warm, thick seed, he didn’t feel sick or disgusted or used, instead he loved the taste because it was Mycroft's and because he had caused him to come and feel great in a situation filled with love and trust, not violence and humiliation. He swallowed his brother's load and licked his lips afterwards.

“God, Sherlock, are you alright?”

Sherlock smiled and wiped over his lips. “Excellent. You taste so good, you should have that on a t-shirt!”

Mycroft looked at him disbelievingly and then he chuckled. “I'm so glad, brother mine.”

“Me too. Thank you for doing that, Mycroft.”

His brother's face darkened for a second before he smiled. “Anything for you, Sherlock. I hope it will help you.”

“I know it will. But…”

“But?” Mycroft sounded hopeful.

“What if I said I wanted to do it again? And more than this? What if I wanted this big thing somewhere else than in my mouth?”

Mycroft swallowed. “I suppose I'd be fine with that. And I might want to be taken by you as well.”

Sherlock smiled and laid a hand on his brother's cheek. “Because you'd do anything for me, right?”

“That's one reason, yes.”

“And what's the other one?”

“I… I'm afraid I…” Mycroft broke off, looking embarrassed.

“You're afraid you're in love with me,” Sherlock concluded.

“Yes. I know that's not what you had in mind when you suggested having sex but… if you had it in you to give me the chance of being more than your brother and more than someone you can trust enough to share your sexuality with, namely your… partner, I would be very happy.”

“You know what? That's exactly what I want.” He hadn't thought about it. He didn’t have to. This man was someone he could rely on, who he had so much in common with – apart from the same parents… - who was loving and generous if it came to him and who would destroy everybody who dared harm him. He was handsome and sexy and he was a damn good kisser. He was Mycroft, he was all and he was the only man Sherlock could imagine sharing with what they had just done. Who if not him?

“You do, brother mine?”

“Yes. And… I want to stay here. Even if I do return to solving cases in the future, I still want to live here. It will raise questions but I cannot go back to sleeping apart from you. Would that be okay?”

Mycroft smiled and Sherlock could have sworn a tear had appeared in his left eye. “Very much. Nobody will suspect we're more than brothers. You will have your own separate part in this house that everybody who visits you here can see. I've got so much space and 221b is too small for three people anyway. It will be fine.”

“But I won't have to sleep in this separate part, will I?”

He grinned when his curls were tousled by long, elegant fingers. “Of course not. Your place is at my side.”

“Or over or under you.”

“Cheeky boy. But yes – just so.”

Sherlock knew he would still have some issues with what had happened. He would have to deal with his shocked and scared parents and someday also with Molly Hooper and the rest of the world again. He and his brother would have to find into being a couple with all the implications. But he knew they would. They loved each other and he knew he was where he belonged – in his brother's arms, kissing him, loving him, now and for the rest of their lives.

The End

 

 


End file.
